by Ilya Ilf
The grand strategist grunted and gave Balaganov a piercing look. Shura laughed.
“Yes,” said Ostap after a long silence. “This one is not going to bring us the money on a platter. Only if I really beg him. This client deserves our respect. Let’s go outside. My brain has just produced an amusing plan. Tonight, God willing, we’ll give Mr. Koreiko’s udder the first squeeze. You, Shura, will do the squeezing.”
CHAPTER 12
HOMER, MILTON,
AND PANIKOVSKY
The orders were very simple:
1. Run into Citizen Koreiko on the street as if by chance.
2. Do not beat him up under any circumstances, and in general avoid violence.
3. Take everything found in the pockets of the above-mentioned citizen.
4. Report upon completion of the task.
Even though the grand strategist’s instructions were perfectly simple and clear, Balaganov and Panikovsky still had a heated argument. The Lieutenant’s sons were sitting on a green bench in the public garden, glancing pointedly at the doors of the Hercules. Arguing, they didn’t even notice that the wind was bending the fire-hose jet from the fountain and spraying them with mist. They just jerked their heads, stared blankly into the clear sky, and continued to bicker.
Panikovsky, who had changed from the thick fireman’s jacket into an open-collared cotton shirt, due to the heat, was acting snooty. He was very proud of the assignment.
“Gotta be a theft,” he insisted.
“Gotta be a mugging,” argued Balaganov, who was also proud of the captain’s trust in him.
“You’re a miserable, wretched person,” declared Panikovsky, looking at his counterpart with disgust.
“And you are an invalid,” retorted Balaganov. “I’m in charge here.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“I’m in charge. It’s my assignment.”
“Yours?”
“Mine.”
“Really?”
“Who else’s? You think it’s yours?”
The conversation entered a realm that had nothing to do with the task at hand. The crooks got so agitated they even started pushing each other, ever so slightly, and hissing; “And who are you?” Such actions usually serve as a prelude to an all-out fight, in which the opponents throw their hats on the ground, ask passers-by to be their witnesses, and rub childlike tears all over their scrubby faces.
But it didn’t come to a fight. Just when the moment was right for the first slap on the face, Panikovsky suddenly pulled his hands away and recognized Balaganov as his direct superior.
Panikovsky must have remembered the thrashings he had received from individuals and entire collectives, and how painful those thrashings were. Having seized power, Balaganov immediately became more amenable.
“Why not mug him?” he said less vehemently. “Is it that difficult? Koreiko walks down the street at night. It’s dark. I approach him from the left. You approach him from the right. I bump him from the left, you bump him from the right. This fool stops and says to me: ‘You punk!’ ‘Who’s the punk?’ I ask. You ask who the punk is too and push from the right. Then I throw him a good . . . No, beating is forbidden!”
“That’s the thing, beating is forbidden,” Panikovsky sighed hypocritically. “Bender wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know, I know . . . Well, fine, then I grab his hands and you check if there’s anything interesting in his pockets. He, naturally, cries ‘Police!’ and then I . . . Oh, damn, no beating. Right, then we go home. So how’s the plan?”
Panikovsky avoided giving a straight answer. He took a carved souvenir cane from Balaganov’s hands—it had a V rather than a knob—drew a straight line in the sand, and said:
“Look here. First, we have to wait until dark. Second . . .”
Panikovsky drew a shaky perpendicular from the right side of the first line.
“Second, he may not even go out tonight. And if he does, then . . .”
Now Panikovsky connected the two lines with a third, making something like a triangle in the sand, and concluded:
“Who knows? He might be out with a whole bunch of people. Then what?”
Balaganov looked at the triangle with respect. He didn’t find Panikovsky’s arguments particularly convincing, but the triangle projected such compelling hopelessness that Balaganov hesitated. Panikovsky noticed it and pounced.
“Go to Kiev!” he said suddenly. “Then you’ll see that I’m right. Yes, you have to go to Kiev!”
“What are you talking about!” mumbled Shura. “Why Kiev?”
“Go to Kiev and ask what Panikovsky did there before the revolution. Do it!”
“Leave me alone,” said Balaganov gloomily.
“No, you should ask!” demanded Panikovsky. “Go and ask! And they’ll tell you that before the revolution, Panikovsky was a blind man. Do you think I would have become a son of Lieutenant Schmidt if it hadn’t been for the revolution? I used to be a wealthy man. I had a family and a nickel-plated samovar on my table. And how did I make my living? With dark glasses and a cane.”
He took a black cardboard case with dull silver stars out of his pocket and showed Balaganov his dark-blue glasses.
“These glasses fed me for many years,” he said with a sigh. “I would put them on, take a cane, go out to Kreshchatik Street, and ask some nice-looking gentleman to help the poor blind man across the street. The gentleman would take me by the arm and walk with me. When we reached the opposite sidewalk, he would already be missing his watch, if he had a watch, or his wallet. Some people used to carry wallets, you know.”
“So why did you quit?” asked Balaganov, perking up.
“The revolution!” answered the former blind man. “I used to pay a cop standing on the corner of Kreshchatik and Proreznaya five rubles a month, and nobody bothered me. The cop even made sure I was safe. He was a good man! His name was Semen Vasilyevich Nebaba. I ran into him recently—he’s a music critic nowadays. And now? Can you really mess with the police these days? I’ve never seen nastier guys. They’re so principled, such idealists. And so, Balaganov, in my old age I had to become a swindler. But for such an important task, I can make use of my old glasses again. It’s much better than a mugging.”
Five minutes later, a blind man in dark-blue glasses stepped out of a public restroom that was surrounded by tobacco and mint plants. His chin raised to the sky, he headed for the park exit, constantly tapping in front of him with a souvenir cane. Balaganov followed him. Panikovsky was unrecognizable. Holding his shoulders back and carefully placing his feet on the sidewalk, he almost walked into buildings, tapped on display window railings with his cane, bumped into people, and moved on, looking right through them. He was so diligent he even dispersed a small lineup that had formed at a bus stop. Balaganov watched this agile blind man with amazement.
Panikovsky continued wreaking havoc until Koreiko showed up in the doorway of the Hercules. Balaganov lost his cool. First he positioned himself too close to the action, then he ran too far away. Finally, he found a spot near a fruit stand that was good for surveying the scene. For some reason, he developed an unpleasant taste in his mouth, as if he had been sucking on a brass doorknob for half an hour. But when he saw Panikovsky’s maneuvers, he calmed down.
Balaganov saw the blind man turn towards the millionaire, brush his leg with the cane, and then bump him with his shoulder. They apparently exchanged a few words. Then Koreiko smiled, took the blind man by the arm, and helped him off the curb onto the street. To stay in character, Panikovsky was banging the paving stones with the cane as hard as he could, and he held his head so far back that it looked as though he were bridled. He proceeded with such skill and precision that Balaganov even felt pangs of envy. Panikovsky put his arm around Koreiko’s waist. His hand slid down Koreiko’s left side and lingered over the canvas pocket of the millionaire bookkeeper for just a fraction of a second.
“Good, good,” whispered Balaganov. “Go, gramps, go!”
/> But at that moment, glass suddenly sparkled, a horn honked nervously, the earth shook, and a large white bus ground to a halt in the middle of the street, barely managing to stay on its wheels. Simultaneously, two cries were heard:
“Idiot! Can’t you see a bus!” shrieked Panikovsky, jumping out from under the wheels and shaking the glasses that had fallen off of his nose in the direction of his helper.
“He’s not blind!” exclaimed Koreiko. “Thief!”
The scene disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke, the bus moved on, and when the fumes parted, Balaganov saw Panikovsky surrounded by a small crowd. There was some kind of commotion around the phony blind man. Balaganov ran closer. Panikovsky had an ugly smile on his face. He was oddly indifferent to what was happening, even though one of his ears was so ruby-red that it would probably glow in the dark—one could have developed photographic plates in its light.
Pushing aside the people who came pouring in from all directions, Balaganov rushed to the Carlsbad Hotel.
The grand strategist sat at a bamboo table, writing.
“They’re beating Panikovsky!” cried Balaganov, picturesquely appearing in the doorway.
“Already?” asked Bender calmly. “That’s a bit too soon.”
“They’re beating Panikovsky!” repeated the red-headed Shura in desperation. “Right by the Hercules.”
“Stop bawling like a polar bear on a warm day,” said Ostap sternly. “Has it been long?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so right away? What a cranky old man! Well, let’s go enjoy the view. You can tell me everything on the way.”
Koreiko had already left by the time the grand strategist arrived, but a huge crowd still heaved around Panikovsky, blocking the street. Cars yelped impatiently, their noses stuck against the mass of people. Nurses in white uniforms looked out of the windows of the clinic. Dogs were running around, their tails curved like sabers. The fountain in the public garden ceased playing. Bender sighed decisively and elbowed his way into the crowd.
“Pardon,” he was saying, “pardon once again. Excuse me, madame, did you drop a ration coupon for jam on the corner? Run, it’s still there. Come on, guys, let the experts through. Let me through, you delinquent, can’t you hear me!”
Applying the policy of carrots and sticks, Bender finally reached the hounded Panikovsky. By this time, his other ear was also red enough to be used for various photographic operations. Panikovsky caught sight of the captain and hung his head in shame.
“Is that him?” asked Ostap dryly, giving Panikovsky a shove in the back.
“Yes, that’s him,” confirmed the numerous truth-tellers eagerly. “We saw it with our own eyes.”
Ostap appealed for calm, took a notebook out of his pocket, glanced at Panikovsky, and said in a commanding voice:
“Witnesses, your names and addresses, please. Step forward, please!”
One would have thought that the citizens, who had shown such eagerness in catching Panikovsky, would readily offer their damning evidence against the lawbreaker. In reality, however, when the truth-tellers heard the word “witnesses,” they lost their spunk, started fussing around, and backed off. Breaks and openings began to form in the crowd. It was falling apart right in front of Bender’s eyes.
“So where are the witnesses?” repeated Ostap.
Panic ensued. Working their elbows, the witnesses cut through the crowd, and within a minute, the street was back to normal. Cars sprung forward, the clinic’s windows shut, dogs began carefully examining the sidewalk posts, and the water jet rose again from the fountain in the public garden, hissing like a siphon.
After the street cleared and Panikovsky was safely out of danger, the grand strategist grumbled:
“You’re a useless old man! A failed madman! Meet yet another blind great—Panikovsky! Homer, Milton, and Panikovsky! What a bunch! And you, Balaganov? A sailor from a shipwreck. ‘They’re beating Panikovsky, they’re beating Panikovsky!’ And where were you? All right, let’s go to the public garden. I’ll make you a scene by the fountain.”
At the fountain, Balaganov promptly blamed everything on Panikovsky. The disgraced blind man cited his nerves, frayed by years of hardship, and, while he was at it, blamed everything on Balaganov, a miserable and wretched person, as everyone knows. Here, the brothers started pushing each other again. Already the familiar shouts “And who are you?” were heard, already Panikovsky’s orbs released a large tear—a precursor to an all-out fight—when the grand strategist called “Break!” and separated the opponents like a referee in a ring.
“You can box on your days off,” he said. “What a match: Balaganov as a bantamweight, Panikovsky as a chickenweight! However, my dear champions, you’re about as competent at your jobs as a sieve made of dog tails. It can’t continue like this. I’m going to dismiss you, especially considering that your social value is nil.”
Forgetting their argument, Panikovsky and Balaganov began to swear up and down that they would go through Koreiko’s pockets that night, no matter what. Bender only smirked.
“You’ll see,” boasted Balaganov. “A street mugging. Under the cover of darkness. Right, Mikhail Samuelevich?”
“I give you my word,” echoed Panikovsky. “Shura and I . . . Don’t you worry! You’re dealing with Panikovsky.”
“That’s exactly what bothers me,” said Bender. “But what the heck. How did you put it? Under the cover of darkness? Fine, under the cover it is. The idea is rather flimsy, of course. The implementation will probably be pitiful, too.”
After several hours of surveillance, all the necessary pieces fell into place—namely, the cover of darkness and the patient himself, who left the old puzzle-maker’s home in the company of a young woman. The woman was not part of the plan, though. All they could do was follow the couple, who were heading towards the sea.
The burning hunk of the moon hung low above the cooling shore. Black basalt couples sat on the cliffs in eternal embrace. The sea whispered about love until death, unrequited passion, broken hearts, and other trifles like that. A star talked to a star in Morse code, twinkling on and off. The tunnel of light from a searchlight connected the two sides of the bay. When it disappeared, it left a lingering black beam in its place.
“I’m tired,” whined Panikovsky, trudging from bluff to bluff behind Koreiko and his lady friend. “I’m old. It’s hard for me.”
He kept stumbling over gopher holes and falling down, grabbing dried-up cow-pies with his hands. He wanted to go back to the hostel, to homey Kozlevich, with whom it was so nice to have some tea and shoot the breeze.
But the moment Panikovsky firmly decided to go home and suggest that Balaganov finish the task by himself, they heard voices ahead of them:
“It’s so warm! You don’t swim at night, Alexander Ivanovich? Then wait for me here. I’ll just take a dip and will be right back.”
Then they heard small stones roll down the cliff, and the white dress disappeared. Koreiko remained alone.
“Hurry up!” whispered Balaganov, pulling Panikovsky’s sleeve. “So, I approach from the left, you approach from the right. Move it!”
“I approach from the left,” said the cowardly violator of the pact.
“All right, fine, you approach from the left. I bump him from the left, no, from the right, and you bump him from the left.”
“Why from the left?”
“Oh, come on! Fine, from the right. He says: ‘You punk!’ And you respond: ‘Who’s the punk?’”
“No, you respond first.”
“Fine. I’ll tell Bender everything. Go, go! So, you’re on the left.”
And the Lieutenant’s valiant sons, shaking with fear, approached Alexander Ivanovich.
The plan fell apart from the very beginning. Instead of approaching the millionaire from the right and pushing him, as called for in the plan, Balaganov hesitated and suddenly blurted out:
“Got a light?”
“I don
’t smoke,” answered Koreiko coldly.
“I see,” said Balaganov foolishly, looking back at Panikovsky. “And do you know what time it is?”
“Around twelve.”
“Twelve,” repeated Balaganov. “Hmm . . . I had no idea.”
“A warm evening,” said Panikovsky deferentially.
In the ensuing pause, only the raging crickets could be heard. The moon turned pale; its light accentuated the powerful shoulders of Alexander Ivanovich. Panikovsky couldn’t bear the tension anymore; he stepped behind Koreiko and screeched:
“Hands up!”
“What?” asked Koreiko, surprised.
“Hands up,” repeated Panikovsky meekly.
The next moment he received a sharp and very painful blow to the shoulder and fell on the ground. When he got up, Koreiko was already grappling with Balaganov. They both breathed heavily, as if they were moving a grand piano. Mermaid-like laughter and splashing came from below.
“Why are you hitting me?” bellowed Balaganov. “I just asked you for the time! . . .”
“I’ll show you the time!” hissed Koreiko, putting the age-old hatred of a rich man for a thief into his blows.
Panikovsky got closer on all fours and slipped his hands into the Herculean’s pockets. Koreiko kicked him, but it was too late. A metal Caucasus cigarette box had already relocated itself from Koreiko’s left pocket to Panikovsky’s hands. Pieces of paper and various membership cards fell from the other pocket and were strewn about on the ground.
“Run!” cried Panikovsky from the dark.
The last blow landed on Balaganov’s back. A few minutes later, the thrashed and agitated Alexander Ivanovich saw two blue, moonlit silhouettes high above his head. They were running up the crest of the hill toward the city.
Zosya, fresh and smelling of sea-salt, found Alexander Ivanovich engaged in an odd pursuit. He was crawling on his knees, lighting matches with trembling fingers, and picking up pieces of paper from the grass. But before Zosya was able to ask what happened, he had already found the receipt for a suitcase that was quietly sitting in the luggage room between a woven basket full of cherries and a baize holdall.